Unfaithful (m/m)

[cocklocked]

I started out wanting to write the real-life tale of how my cock first came to be caged. About five drafts later it's now largely fiction, with various embellishments that make me feel horny - though I'm still not entirely happy with it! But I've decided to publish anyway, or I never will. I hope it's something that some readers may enjoy...

1.

I should've realised that he'd found me out. I guess, deep down, I did realise - but I was in denial. I wanted to keep my dirty little secret from my husband, Conor. That I'd given in to temptation. Fucked another man. And I'd really enjoyed it, too - until the guilt set in on the way home.

I wanted to forget what a good shag Steve was. How great my cock had felt up his arse. The filthy sounds, the grunts, the swearing as I screwed him. How hard I'd shot into the condoms we used - I'd had the decency to deploy rubbers, at least. I also wanted to forget how ashamed I'd felt making love to Conor the same night, or how much I wanted to fuck Steve again. And that I probably would've fucked Steve again, because the fact is that I was a liar, and weak.

But I never did fuck Steve again, because Conor was on to me - not that he said anything straight away. The morning after the night before, everything was sweetness and light and smiles at breakfast time. Then I went out for a run - just 10k, nothing heavy - but by the time I got home again, the atmosphere was frosty. Conor was clearly in a bad mood about something, and he didn't want to talk about it. I put up with his sullen mood and monosyllabic conversation for the rest of the day, before getting fed up and asking him to tell me what was up. He just bristled. "I can't be full of the joys of Spring every fucking day, Jared! And I've had some shitty news. Just leave me to think, I'll tell you about it when I'm good and ready. OK?"

"Conor, love, I can't help if you..."

"Just shut the fuck up, Jared! I'm going to bed."

It wasn't unknown for Conor and I to have rows, exchange hard words - I'd describe us as being passionate men - but his tone did seem unusually venomous that night. I gave him some time to himself, then followed him up to bed, where we lay in silence until we fell asleep. No sex that night, for sure.

I should've known.

The next day was no better, though at least it was a Monday so I could escape the storm clouds by going to work. Tuesday, ditto. This was getting ridiculous. I'd decided to confront him at dinner that evening, bring matters to a head, demand an explanation - but I never got the chance. We'd sat down at the kitchen table and were just getting started on demolishing the lasagne, when Conor asked me a question in his 'calm voice.' A flat, almost monotone mode of address that always sets my alarm bells ringing. The 'calm voice' usually comes just before a volcanic eruption.

"So, enjoy rugby practice last Saturday?"

Oh God.

"Well? Have a good afternoon with the lads? Energetic? Sweaty?"

I started to panic. Did he know? He knew. Almost certainly. But not absolutely certainly. All this went through my head at about a million miles an hour, then I did what came naturally and lied. "Umm, yeah - great session. Hard work, well fucking muddy, but good fun. Why...?"

"Oh, I guessed you must've been getting down and dirty, Jared," he remarked in a faux nonchalant manner, "No wonder you were in such a hurry to chuck your kit in the wash when you got home. You're not usually in any rush to do the laundry. You must've been trying to shift some real filth. Stubborn stains, perhaps?"

"Well," I replied weakly, trying to fake a smile, "it's that sort of a game."

The response was loud and sudden, as Mount Vesuvius exploded furiously into life. "Don't tell me about fucking games, Jared," Conor bellowed, completely losing his rag, "I've had enough of your fucking games! You weren't at your stupid bloody seniors' training last Saturday afternoon, were you? You didn't set foot in the club at all."

"Of course I was, the lads..."

"Shut the FUCK up! I smelt a rat - because that's what you are, a fucking rat - the moment you got home and emptied your kit straight into the washing machine. So, I had a look in your boot bag - sparkling clean - and then I rang Danno whilst you were out running the next morning. You know Danno. An even less convincing liar than you. It took me about two minutes to wring the truth out of him. You didn't turn up, and neither did Steve FUCKING Banstead. Whose backside you presumably spent from about two til four o'clock that afternoon buried in."

"Conor! No, I... listen, me and Steve, we were both on our way to the ground when we got talking, and he needed to unburden himself. About something important. So we went back to his place and.."

"You fucked. Yeah, I get that. You wanted to talk about fucking, and then you fucked. Bastard."

"No!" My husband obviously wasn't buying the story, but I reckoned I had nothing more to lose at this stage by going on. "Steve wants to get back together with Caroline. He's really suffering. He misses her, Conor."

"The fuck he does! Steve is gay. Completely fucking gay, Jared. As gay as us, for fuck's sake! Caroline ain't coming back. We both know this. She's filed for divorce. Last I heard, she'd shacked up with that new boyfriend of hers who used to work behind the bar at the Bull's Head and they'd moved up to Manchester. He doesn't want his wife, he wants to be fucked. She left after she came home early from a shopping trip to London and found her husband taking his sargeant's meat truncheon up the bum. The literal bent coppers. No wonder so many people don't trust the fucking police nowadays."

The game was up. My shoulders slumped. "Conor, I don't know what to say..."

"Well, 'sorry' would be nice." The volcano had stopped erupting. Instead, cold fury. He was back to the calm voice, sure enough, but his stare was icy. "But I wouldn't believe it."

"But I AM sorry, Conor! You've got to believe me! Steve... I never meant to. He's been coming on to me for months." That much was actually true. The bloody man had decided he fancied taking up rugby again the previous Autumn, and soon after that he'd also decided that he fancied me. I guess it may have had something to do with us being the only two gay men on the team. That, and my being unable to resist ogling his wonderfully tight, hard, gorgeous backside. Reminded me very much of my husbands, only hairier. Steve made a point of getting changed and showered next to me as often as possible. The banter between us became more and more suggestive. By the time I finally gave in and had him, it'd become so obvious that the rest of the lads were constantly joking that we ought to get a room.

So we did. His.

"It didn't mean you had to fuck him. You think that I've never, not even once, seen a hot bloke and thought what it'd be like to enjoy a bit of rough and tumble with him? Have him screw me? Doesn't mean I'd do it. I have actual self-control. Because our relationship means something to me. Well, at least it means something to one of us, because you don't appear to give a fuck."

"Conor, please, don't say that! I fucking love you! Steve, he was just a shag, he don't mean jack shit to me. He worked on me. Wore me down. I won't do it again."

"That's what you told me the last time. 'I won't do it again.' Liar." Seven years ago. The last time I'd cheated - or, rather, been caught cheating. The two men after that, I'd managed to keep under wraps.

"That's unfair. You know how bad that row was. What we said to one another. How fucking hurt I was, Conor."

"I was hurting too. Didn't go and seek to soothe my wounded feelings by pissing off to London, pulling a complete stranger in a bar and humping him though, did I? I think it's time to face the facts. You're never going to change, are you Jared? Never going to be able to keep your dick in your pants. Perhaps it's time that you packed your bags and left?"

"Don't say that Conor! Don't ever say that about us." Never, never had he suggested that we should split up before. It was unthinkable. Just because I was hopeless at monogamy, that I was tempted, that I strayed from time to time, it didn't mean that Conor wasn't the bright centre of my universe. The light around which my life revolved. My eyes brimmed, and the first tear rolled down my cheek. "I'll do anything, anything I have to do, to make this right. I'll never fuck another man again, I swear."

"No. You won't. Not if you want to keep me. Except you're too damned weak-willed to control your dick. Where it leads, you follow. So, what do we do? The way I look at it, there are only two choices left..."
Calmly, Conor pushed his chair back, got up, and went to one of the cupboards. He opened it, pulled out a small, plain cardboard box, and leant back against the worktop.

"One choice: divorce. The other: in this box," he said, holding it up in his left hand and tapping the lid with the index finger of his right.

This was weird. Cautiously, I replied, "Conor... what's in the box?"

"That's for me to know and you to find out. Now, you can pick the box, or you can leave. I'm sure that PC Banstead will offer you a place to crash. He's been all too accommodating so far."

"The box!" I replied, my desperation to patch things up with Conor outweighing my suspicions about its contents. "Please, whatever you want."

"Yes, Jared. Whatever I want. Because, the way I look at it, after all the shit you've put me through, you owe me. And I OWN your arse. Now stand up - boy."

"Boy? Boy?! Conor, I'm forty-fucking-five!"

"That's 'Sir', from now on, to you boy. And your behaviour hardly befits your age. Adult men are responsible. They consider those around them. They have basic impulse control. I think I'm being quite generous with the word 'boy', frankly. You're more like an animal. Now, stand up."

That stare was unforgettable. The anger. The strength. Conor was two inches shorter and a good stone lighter than me, but sat at that table I suddenly felt small, and he like a giant. I placed my hands on the table and, slowly, pushed my chair back, and did as I was told.

"Strip."

"Eh?"

"Strip. Naked. Or leave. Your choice."

I looked into my husband's stony eyes, then at the box he was holding, and back again. The atmosphere was getting very intense. I felt a knot in my stomach.

"What's in that box?"

"Strip now, boy."

And I did it. Looking back, I'm not sure if I was more apprehensive about what Conor might say or do next, or about the mystery container, but regardless I did what he wanted. T-shirt. Trainers. Belt. Jeans. I stood there in my socks and boxer briefs, feeling suddenly nervous, embarrassed even, about baring my body to my own husband. I felt exposed.

"All of it, boy. If you can get your dick out for Steve, you can get it out for me."

I pulled off my socks, hooked my thumbs under the waistband of my kecks, and slid them down my thighs. They fell to the floor and I stepped out of them. I held my arms by my side, balling my fists, resisting the urge to cover my manhood.

"Good boy. Now," he said, stepping forward and handing me the box, "here's your surprise."

Slowly, I opened the lid and peered inside. The steel, exposed to the light, glinted in its depths. My eyes widened. I shot a horrified glance up at my husband, back at the box, then back up at Conor again. And I swear, just for a moment, I saw the merest hint of a smirk.

"No! Conor, no! You can't do this to me! It's... cruel, Conor. It's fucking perverted!"

"Firstly, you call me 'Sir' as you have been told. Secondly, it's not perverted. You insisting you love me whilst screwing blokes behind my back whenever you feel like it, that's perverted. Thirdly, I CAN do it to you, and I SHALL do it to you. That is, if you don't want to move in with Steve, whilst I make an appointment with a divorce lawyer."

"Oh God!" I wailed. Let him do this to me, or lose him. My pride said never. My heart said I must.

"It must be done, boy. I can't trust you. Not now, not for a long time to come. We need to see if you can mend your ways. Learn to be a man, at long last. Now - let's get started. The ring, boy. Put it on. It's a snug fit, so you may need the lube I've given you."

The carton contained a steel ring, an enclosure wrought of bars, a lock and key, and a small tube of lube. I was to wear a cock cage! I'd seen these occasionally in porn, but never handled one for real. Cages were for subs and sissies. No self-respecting man would wear one.

No self-respecting man.

I put the box down on the table, lifted the ring out, and held it in front of my manhood.

"Balls first, one at a time, then bend your cock and squeeze it through after. If you struggle use the lube."
As I placed the ring against my scrotum and pushed the first testicle through, I couldn't believe I was going through with it. My bollocks went through the large, heavy ring easy enough, but I had to resort to the lube to push my dick through what little space was left. It took a great deal of squashing and pushing - I don't think I'd ever appreciated before quite what an elastic organ the cock is - but after a few moments' concentration I was in. I pushed my length right through, and the heavy ring sat round the base of my genitals. With all that pushing and pulling and lubing my cock, you would've thought I'd've got an erection, but for whatever reason - apprehension, anxiety, embarrassment - I stayed limp.

"Good boy. Now, before you get hard, put on the cage. The pins will slot straight into the holes on the ring. Make sure they're pushed right the way in, so that the cage is secure."

I extracted the curved trap from the box, took a deep breath, and then - before I had a chance to change my mind - I slid it onto my dick, flinching as my manhood was encased in cold steel. It was a tight fit and a certain amount more deft manipulation was needed to feed my penis all the way down, but eventually I was all the way in and the pins found their sockets, sliding cleanly into place. My husband had chosen the size well: the end of the cage was only millimetres away from the tip. There was only just sufficient room for my limp dick in there. Small hoops at the top of the ring and the cage now aligned with each other - ready to receive the lock.

"You're almost there, boy. The lock on this one's a cylinder - slide it into the locking rings, turn the key, and then give the key to me - and it's done."

My hand trembled as I picked up the brass cylinder lock, the key inserted into it, and slid it into place.

"The key, boy. Turn the key, take it out of the lock, hand it to me." Conor tried to remain impassive, but I could detect the undertone of arousal in his voice. Cool, determined, as insistent as before, but with that bass note of lust I knew so well from when he demanded that I fuck him.

I turned the key and drew it out. The click of it snapping shut, the metallic zip of its teeth as it was removed, just like the lock in the front door. Quieter but, I suspected, just as secure. I placed the key into Conor's outstretched hand. My manhood: imprisoned. Under his total control. He slipped the key into the pocket of his jeans.

 

[cocklocked]

2.

Conor sat back down at the table, bringing his eyes level with his handiwork. "The cage suits you boy. There's no escape from the steel. For so long as you wear it, your dick is good for nothing but pissing, and even that will need to be done in the seated position now that you've traded your hose for a sprinkler. No more shagging around. No more shagging arse full stop. Now, I am going to help myself to this rather acceptable wine, and you are going to clear the table and do the washing up."

I thought for a moment about asking Conor if he was going to help, but after what had just happened I decided that wouldn't be a good idea. You don't argue with the guy who's just ordered you to lock your dick up and give him the key. Because that's what had just happened. My husband had asserted his will over me. And I'd let him. I picked up the plates, tipped the leftover food into the bin, and set to washing them at the sink, my back - and my bare backside - turned to my husband. Doing the dishes, naked but for the evil contraption hanging from my groin, I felt... Ridiculous? Brow-beaten? Small? Humiliated? I wasn't quite sure exactly how I felt - but I knew that the cage felt heavy. I was average, or maybe just a fraction above, in the tackle department, but suddenly I was much heavier down there, and was aware of the sensation of it swaying gently between my legs every time I shifted the weight on my feet. This was how it must feel to be well-hung. To take your clothes off, and feel something big and heavy hanging down there...

Holy fuck! As I started to imagine having a really big dick, my standard sized model began to harden - and almost immediately found itself in its first unwinnable argument with those infernal steel bars. It was struggling to get hard, but all that was happening was that my knob head was being crushed as it swelled up, and its attempt to lengthen was being totally defeated by the curve of the enclosure. All it really managed to do was to pull a little on the ring, tugging on my scrotum. I put the dish I was washing down, grabbed the edge of the worktop with both hands, and just stood there, biting my lip, waiting for things to calm down.

"Trying to get hard, boy? What's going on in that dirty little mind of yours? I doubt that it's got much to do with hot soapy water?"

"No, Sir." I just called my husband 'Sir'. This was NOT fucking normal. But then again, naked washing up whilst wearing a cock cage wasn't fucking normal, either. "I was... feeling the weight between my legs. My tackle feels well heavy. I was imagining..."

"That you were big? Get used to being small. No hardons for you boy. No more topping. A limp-dicked bumboy. Dry those hands, then get over here."

I was obedient and presented myself, swollen, trapped cock and all, before my new master.

"Oh yes, I can see your little boy willy trying to escape. Tough luck. He's going nowhere. Now this," Conor said, unbuckling his belt and unzipping his fly, "THIS is what big looks like." He lifted his arse slightly off the seat, and yanked his jeans and the briefs beneath them down to his knees. His eight-inch hardon - thick, uncut, magnificent - jutted rock hard from his crotch.

Now, what you have to understand about our relationship, before the cock-locking started, is that I was the top and he was the bottom - and that was how Conor liked it. I love fucking arse, he loved being fucked. Never, once, had we reversed roles. But even if my anus wasn't thoroughly well-acquainted with his member, my mouth certainly was. My desperate cock twitched as I licked my lips...

"You want this, don't you boy?"

"Yes, Sir."

"Then ask nicely. Ask for what you want, and if you are lucky you may get it."

"Please, Sir. Please may I suck your cock?"

"You may, boy. Take my trousers and underwear off, and get to work. No touching that key, though, or I promise that you'll regret it!"

I sank to my knees and started getting Conor out of his jeans and briefs - which didn't take long, given my eagerness and his stockinged feet. In about ten seconds, he was naked from the waist down except for his socks. I eased his hairy, muscular legs apart, and got stuck in - wishing that I could free my dick, frot it against his, lift his legs up to his chest and fuck his tight arse. As I closed my lips round his thick cock and started to slide them down his shaft, taking more and more length, tasting him, my hand fumbled on the floor for those jeans. But I couldn't quite get at them.

Conor put his hand on my head, started running his fingers through my short hair. "You know, you're a great cocksucker, boy. Always have been. I could sit here while you worship me for hours. If only you hadn't tried to take my key. Get off my dick, boy." I released his penis from my mouth, and looked up. Conor rose from the chair. His hardon, slick with my spit, stood rock hard and almost vertical. He told me to get up. I obeyed.

"Bend over the table."

"What..."

"Bend over the table. Now."

Slowly, I leant over and grasped the far edge of the table. My bare backside suddenly felt hugely vulnerable. Speaking of bare backsides, I looked behind me and saw Conor's, all hard muscle, as he sauntered over to the same cupboard where he'd hidden the cock cage. The sexiest fucking arse in the world, the glutes gently flexing as he walked, peeling his t-shirt off over his head and chucking it on the floor along the way. God, I wanted him!

Blood was pumping into my knob fast enough to get me rock hard in seconds, but most of it was being forced straight back out again by the unyielding resistance that was now ruining my erection. This fucking cage...

He grabbed something, then turned around. Handcuffs.

"Bend right over boy. Chest on the table. Arse in the air. Hands behind your back."

My heart began to pound. I probably should've refused. But I'd gone this far already - and, bloody hell, he was almost as sexy from the front as the back. Broad shoulders, tight waist, that big, erect, hooded cock, and his gorgeous, black body hair. Thick on his forearms, chest, midriff...

I obeyed, and presented my wrists. He walked up behind me and snapped on the cuffs.

"It's time for me to teach you a lesson, boy. A lesson you should've been taught years ago. A lesson about respect. You don't respect me. You wouldn't accept the cage and then try to get out of it if you did. You wouldn't sleep with other men if you did. You've fucked me over, boy, time and time again. Well now, I'm going to fuck you over." Swiftly, my husband kicked my ankles apart and brought his weight down on me. His hands gripped my shoulders. He wedged his erection in my arse crack. Started to slide the length along it, rocking his hips, humping me.

"Conor, please..."

"'Sir', you little shit!"

"Sir, please, this isn't us! We don't do this. I... I haven't done this for twenty years. Please, Sir, don't fuck me..."

"Boy, you have to learn that your actions have consequences. That you deserve to be punished for wrong doing. You have to wear the cock cage for being unfaithful to me. And you must now take my dick up your arse because, whilst I love you very much, the way we've been living all these years simply has to change. Until you learn to be a good husband, learn how to behave properly and make good decisions, I will simply have to be the responsible adult and take charge of everything. Including, and especially, sex. Now, be calm, breathe deep, and think about this. You know, deep down, that what I say makes sense."

I felt that long, thick cock pushing my buttocks apart. God alone knows how I was meant to take it. But take it I would, if my master insisted. Because Conor was right. Damn it, he was right. It was obvious how it had come to this. My lack of self-control. Thinking with my cock. Was surrendering control such a bad idea? Was locking up my cock such a bad idea? Laid across the table, staring straight ahead, I gulped and closed my eyes.

I would submit to him.

"I understand, Sir."

Conor kept slowly rubbing his erection against my backside. "Do you accept my domination, boy?"

"Yes, Sir."

"Would you like to feel this inside you?"

"Yes, Sir."

"Then ask me for it, boy."

"Please, Sir," I swallowed hard, again, "I want you to fuck me."

I heard his breathing getting heavier, the arousal in his voice, as he responded. "You want me to open your arse right up with my thick cock? You want me to fuck you nice and hard, boy?"

"Yes, Sir. Please. I want it. I need it." And yes, I was bloody nervous, and I was trying to say the right thing because I'd far rather have my husband buttfuck me than throw me out into the street. But there was something else going on, regardless of the fact that the tables were being turned on me. When our bodies joined together, the result was almost always great sex. I began to anticipate something special. I was feeling more and more horny.

I felt Conor lift himself off me. The absence of his weight, and of his penis. For a moment, I thought he had changed his mind - until I felt the pressure against my arsehole. My eyes shot open wide, and I looked behind to see him reaching down between my legs. Fingering me. Lubing me. The lube was a mercy, no doubt, but all the same I was so fucking tight. I saw his raging hardon - and felt my own dick straining against the cage. I was a top! This shit shouldn't have been turning me on! But there was no doubting it: I was getting my arsehole played with, and my body was reacting powerfully.

He pulled his fingers out, and squeezed more lube into his hand from the container that he'd supplied with the cage. He started to grease his dick.

"It's time for you to be disciplined, boy. For disrespect. For disobedience. To be mounted and fucked, so that you will learn your place. It's also a punishment for me, for believing your bullshit lies and for letting you get away with your pathetic behaviour for all these years. If only you had learned your lesson without it coming to this, perhaps we would be together in bed right now, you inside me, bodies wrapped around one another and making love just the way we both like it - but the cage has put an end to that. Instead, your manhood is useless, and I am going to fuck you."

Conor brought one hand down onto my shoulder blade again. I could well guess what he was doing with the other. Guiding his cock home. I felt him push against my anus, hearing him give out a low grunt as the head opened me up, causing me to have a sharp intake of breath. And then, he pushed his length in one long, swift stroke, right the way inside, voicing his pleasure in a long, low groan as he filled me. I cried out as I felt his thickness stretch my arse wide open, and his length trigger a sharp pain deep inside my body. For the first time since I was a young man, I was a bottom.

And - indignity of indignities! - this treatment made my caged dick throb so fucking hard.

Conor remained still for a few moments, his full length buried in me - perhaps enjoying the sensation of being inside his husband for the first time, perhaps giving me a chance to get used to it, maybe both. But it didn't last. The screwing began with cruel, calculating strokes, pulling out ever so slowly until he was most of the way out, and then driving it back into me hard, over and over.

"You know, boy, I wasn't planning on giving you a good fuck until bedtime, but your disobedience and how great your arse looked when you were standing there at the sink, that made my mind up. And now that hot arse is filled with my dick. And soon it will be filled with my cum. That sound good, boy? You want Master to fuck you nice and hard, and shoot his cum deep inside you?"

I lay there under my husband, cuffed, caged, pinned down by his weight, his big dick piston fucking my defenceless arse. An arse that hadn't had a dick up it for two decades. You would've thought I'd've asked him to stop. Indeed, begged him to release me. Except that my tormented cock was still straining away, to the extent that it was now leaking precum through the cage bars onto the tablecloth. And my body was dragging the long-ago experiences of my youth to the surface. Instinctively, my arse had first relaxed to try to accommodate his meat, and then, as I'd grown used to the relentless rhythm, I had started to rock my hips backwards. To meet his thrusts. To accept them. To welcome them. To provoke them.

And in those moments, I recalled vividly my very first lover. I was 18, he was 21. He was handsome, athletic, well hung - and he knew how to use it. He really fucking knew how to use it. It was so bloody long ago I had half-forgotten!

And, amazingly, Conor knew exactly what he was doing with his endowment, too.

I didn't just want him to keep going. I wanted him to fuck my brains out.

"Yes, Sir. I want it. Give me your fucking cum! Dump it in my fucking hole, Sir."

My words seemed to spur Conor on to even greater efforts. He stopped varying the pace and just went at my backside like a pneumatic drill. He was grunting loudly with each thrust and dripping sweat over my back. I tightened my grip on the end of the table and took the full force, sure that he was only moments away from shooting.

My own cock, meanwhile, continued to throb uselessly against its bars. Its pleasure didn't matter. My pleasure didn't matter. The locking was one aspect of my punishment, being fucked like a cheap rent boy was another. In that moment I was my man's piece of meat, nothing but a tight arse, of value only as somewhere to put his cock. My surrender was total: this was all about getting him off.

Conor's animal grunts and growls grew louder, and I knew he was over the edge. One big pump, a second, a third, and he drove his whole body forward, pushing himself up my arse to the balls as he brought his torso down hard on my back and his feet lifted off the floor. Crushing me against the table as he shook and spasmed, I could feel the ecstasy of release in his body as well as hear it in his voice as the waves of his orgasm shot into me. Covering me, heaving, his chest stuck to my back by a layer of sweat as he finished giving me his load. Using my body as his cum dump whilst my own manhood remained bound beneath our bodies, useless and ignored.

I'd been subjugated, punished, and reduced to the status of a fuck hole, to be used for my husband's - my master's - pleasure.

And I'd loved it.

 

[deleted8493621]

that's probably what needs to happen to me... cheater all the time